My middle child is
all metal. He is a rock god. He’s twelve. This past winter, during
his second week of cotillion he learned the fox trot. He’s quick to point out that foxes don’t trot, in case you’re
curious. Cotillion teaches formal
dance steps and social etiquette that my kids can’t possibly learn at
home. I was a non Cotillion kid
when I was in middle school, mostly because my mother was in her rejection of
the establishment phase circa 1976.
Of course it was all the other kids talked about at school the next day –
the horror of dancing together in fancy clothes. But they were grinning like idiots and I knew I was missing
out.
My guy who lives in
his black Slayer t-shirt and baggy black jeans with ringlets down to his
shoulders cleans up good for cotillion. He had been planning his cotillion
attire for two years, since his older brother was forced to attend. His attitude was much more
enthusiastic, provided that I allowed him to wear a camoflage tux with a top
hat. Sadly, we never found one. In a navy blazer and khakis he’s still all
metal. A rock god. James Hetfield in a suit is still James
Hetfield.
That night they
learned the art of proper introduction.
When changing dance partners, one introduces themselves, first and last
name. The instructor gave an
example: “rather than ‘I’m Joe’
say instead ‘I’m Joe Clarke’.”
Each time he changed dance partners and was paired with a girl from his
school, my son introduced himself, “I’m Joe Clark”. Bingo.
The girls laughed. There’s
more to cotillion than the fox trot.
Cotillion rocks.
Mary Allison Tierney's essay The Gingerdreadman is included in the anthology Mamas Write, available at Amazon, or your local independent bookshop.
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